Disclaimer: I am ownership-less.
Author's Note: Back to the not-fluffy-ish things.
Warnings: Intended violence? The attentive Dangersocks, as per usual, helped me with editing, but this one may still be a bit messy. My bad.
XXX
He had seen that beaming face. He had seen it. He had found it.
It had been inside the armoire.
Behind a box of yellowed letters, of whittled toys no longer used, he had spotted the gilded edge of that ornate and dusty frame—had heaved it into daylight with a grunt and a tug, the motion rustling the cold velvet of a cloak imbued with luckenbooth brooches.
He had not known what to think when he had discovered it. Not then. Not at the time. Because at the time, it had made no sense. He had recognized his friend, the Scoutmaster, captured on canvas: younger than he'd ever known the man to be, with fewer creases on his brow and less bulk to his muscles. The Earl of Harlan in his early twenties, perhaps: at the peak of his youthful vitality. The pinnacle of verve and optimism. His auburn eyes, free of emerald shackles and weary shadows, had not yet lost their sheen. Their hope.
Swathed equally in crimson mantle and an air of unassuming dignity, the rendered redhead had been placed to the right of an antique chair, a gloved hand balanced atop its backrest. In turn, his stomach served as a rest of its own. A little girl with onyx ringlets had been seated primly against the motionless Earl, perched upon another's lap with hands folded and ankles crossed. Dark skinned, pink cheeked, and adorable, her ribbons and skirts shone with a silken luster imbued by a light source lost to the years. One of so many things lost to the years, he'd mused as he had stared. But though the times have changed along with the child, she had still been readily recognizable: Miss Dana, no doubt—her tourmaline a heavy weight over a heart that had not yet beat for a full decade.
And then there was Cecil. Cecil, poised atop a lushly baroque throne. Cecil, upon whose knees Adana had been propped. Cecil, whose visage in aged paint captured the reflection of now with the accuracy of a mirror. Like the day that they had met, the pictured Marquis was young and lovely and pale and perfect. Identical. The two Cecils had almost been entirely identical. Perhaps his hair had been darker in acrylics; perhaps there were lingering shards of blue in the portrait's eyes. But these minutiae aside, there had been no difference between the man who had fallen atop him on the London streets, and the showcased countenance that smiled and smiled.
He had not known what to think when he had discovered it. Not then. After all, it did not correlate with his amassed data. It made no sense, scientifically speaking. The ages were wrong. The faces, too. Why commission such a folly? Vanity had never seemed a problem in this household—not one of his companions had ever lusted after youth or beauty. So why? Why reimagine their relationship like this? If done in jest, why hide the resulting masterpiece? Why hoard it away with old letters and sentimental knickknacks—with treasures so private that it took a will to find them? Why lock it in the dark of a wardrobe, stashing it like a dangerous secret?
At the time, it had made no sense.
Now, it is beginning to.
X
The Dark Box
Diamond, 1749
X
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
The profane shriek of unfiltered noise ricochets off of the balustrades, the gale-storm howl blustering between the banisters and tearing down shrouds of cobwebs. In their place, spiraled wood spiderwebs into smaller slivers, the threaded cracks cutting deep. Deeper. Needle-sharp shards pop free, piercing the partitions. Chunks of mahogany rain upon the stairway with the force of an oceanic tempest, pounding against steps that undulate like a rising tide. Echoing sound waves swell into an audible surge, shushing the leaves and bending the boughs of all that grows in the dilapidated foyer. Shadows as black as clinging mold shiver along with the decrepit infrastructure, entire walls warping inward and out at the command of warbled notes. The foundations groan. The floorboards squeal.
The voice breaks. Fissures, really—like the lathwork under their feet, cracking beneath a pulsating mesh of rubbery roots. The shrill tone fractures, one pitch becoming many. Wallpaper shrivels into skin-sheer tatters as the unceasing yowl claws at the ears, curdling blood and ancient paint. An unbearable harmony tolls through the whole of the crumbling house, striking against the intruder with the violence of a great bell. Physically. Powerfully. The newel post which had decorated the right half of the stairwell bursts as others' heads have done, an ebony angel collapsing into pieces with the ash-to-dust glory of all else that falls. It is unsalvageable.
The same cannot be said, she thinks, of the child who destroys it.
"You may as well take a breath, Boy of Opal and Jade. This shall not work on me. Not this time—not yet."
The woman's knees are braced beneath her, skirts swirling in the cyclone that rages from his lungs. A single hand is raised, a wordless command to stop. The flesh of that hand— smooth and soft and darker than the boy's own— bears symbols that he recognizes, symbols from his Grandfather's books. Symbols cleaved onto his own marred back, interwoven with eyeballs and vines. The rich violet of those painted swirls gains vibrancy, gains luminosity, as the little one openly wails his terror, scrabbling backwards on his bottom at the top of the landing. His grimy hands flail; his legs waver and feet stamp. He half-tries to hide himself behind those bannisters that remain, wide eyes peering around jigsawed rails as he leaks dewdrops and loam.
"Shhh. Hush, Young Master. There is no need to cry."
Snarled weeds of chestnut hair waft hither and thither in vortexing winds, their thorny tips scraping at the roses blooming beneath grime-streaked cheeks. Knotted tendrils stick in that viscous mire. The child's screams have begun to fragment, gaining petrified hiccups as graveled sobs grind into literal gravel. Bits of stone and chips of shell tumble from the maw of his open mouth, plumes of gritty dust billowing from his nose. A diaphanous wing-tip quivers where it sticks to his bottom lip, fragile as a prayer. He bears his gravestone teeth, jaw clenched tight but full of gaps. A millipede flosses through those cavities, its spindled legs chattering against ivory and enamel. In the darkness of twilight, his unblinking gaze shines with the silvery chatoyance of a feral beast.
"I am not here to hurt you. I am here to help, I swear."
With care but no caution, the woman picks her way over the smashed furnishings and halved planks that had once barricaded the front entrance. Lifted skirts whisper. Booted feet fall lightly, trippingly; soles are first framed within, then without, then within the branching veins of florae that have granted this manor life. Leaflets susurrate, stems hiss. Blooddrops weave a chain of broken hearts through the flaws in mounted paneling, while lilac thistles of burdock add barbs to the handrails of the stairs. Columbine hangs in heavy carcass clusters from the catwalk of the upper halls, decapitated and scarlet. Shivering. There is a chill to this place, despite its conservatory headiness. It sets the teeth chattering, as well as the legs and armor of unseen insects. A vibrant indigo butterfly wobbles through the gloom, lurching high and low in quavering uncertainty.
It alights with wariness upon the crest of a braided bun. Its wings flutter, its antenna prod. The woman leaves it be, pausing in the vestibule to add:
"I cared for your family, Young Master. Before the Ritual, I was nurse to the Palmer children."
Mauve bunches of amaranthus, crumpled blooms of anemone, and feathery plumes of artemisia add misty, yet colorful cataracts to the remnants of the corridors that she had once walked. From the second story, his face still framed by the bars of a self-imposed prison, the little boy watches her—mouth too wide and eyes too large. Between his stained fingers and the worn polish of the balustrades, tiny green tendrils have sent out sprouts. Heath grows, and harebell, too: their inverted teacup flowers pouring pollen upon decaying floorboards. Sticky, wet. Unnaturally sanguine. The droplets spatter beside her, their fragrance as cloyingly sweet as rotten fruit. Fermenting nectar seeps into the floor, like a seed being buried; from the center of those damp patches, helenium and begonias spiral into supernatural bloom, haloing the intruder in an artificial brightness.
She does not dare leave that golden ring.
"I did not know that you existed, Sir, until rumors of a haunted manor found my daughter and I in the countryside," she calls to the child above, bangles singing as she spreads her arms wide. "I apologize for shirking my duties. I am so sorry that you have been suffering in this house alone. But I am here now. I have returned to Night Vale, and I shall be nurse to you."
From within the safety of stalks and bannisters, the Palmer child scrutinizes his guest. His clothes are unkempt, his tresses wild, and every last inch of him is somehow soiled. He is barefooted, barefaced; an abomination and a mess, yes, but beneath his bangs azure eyes are disconcertingly sharp: luminous with an intelligence that goes far beyond his years.
The woman stands her ground, unshaken despite the rumbling of the earth.
"If it pleases, you may call me Amma, as your siblings before you," she offers. The tilt of her head sets her amethyst bindi glistening, framed upon her brow by a diadem of henna. As it had whilst he had screamed, the gem is glowing with the softest of light: an otherworldly glimmer like that of a distant star. It twinkles. It begs to be wished upon. It is enchanting and familiar. Her voice is much the same as she quietly asks, "What is your name, little one?"
The boy considers. He mushes his jaw. A sound escapes, meaningless but piercingly shrill. In its wake, the millipede that had swung from his lips like a rope of segmented spittle loses both its grip and its life, slipping from his chin in a single slick swoop. Its coiling husk hits the floor; it tells her everything and nothing. It tells her enough. And so she understands when the cursed child covers up his eyes: briefly, despairingly, with the palms of both hands.
She understands, but he does not—not yet, not now—and the unintended irony of his answer sets the woman chuckling. Her amusement is hearty, but silken and rich. It flows like molasses, trapping a flurrying butterfly.
"Not to worry, my Lord," the woman soothes in the aftermath, speaking with a warmth that wilts the nearest flowers. Heather shrivels, and branches bow; she steps from the vestiges of her wreathed enclosure as she avows, "When you have need of your Eyes, you shall have them back."
The boy balks, bemused. Amma beams, exuding acceptance and Love as she tenderly decrees:
"But for now, Young Master, let us call you Cecil."
XXX
From crystalvaults, crystal-cure:
Diamond: Famous for being the hardest and most valued of all gemstones, diamonds are symbols of innocence and consistency. While they are rumored to be good for coughs, they are not generally prized for their abilities to heal. However, they do work wonders when it comes to supplementing and supporting the powers of other healing stones, particularly amethysts. Besides conducting and amplifying energies, diamonds are said to alleviate fear and anxiety, as well as help the wearer counteract exhaustion. As a gem that radiates the love of the Divine, diamond is an excellent stone for anyone who feels that they have lost their identity or their self-worth, or who shows "reluctance to step into their spiritual destiny in this life."
Amethyst: A stone to sober the mind. Worn by the Ancient Egyptians as a guard against guilt and fear, it is also said to protect against self-deception and witchcraft. In more modern times, Catholics have used this gem as a symbol of piety, humility, and wisdom. As a power stone, amethyst is best known for opening the psychic centers, as well as acting as an aid in healing heart and lung related problems. It is also a good charm for preventing cravings and headaches.
From google, wikipedia:
Amma: In India, "amma" is a familiar term for "mother"
Cecil: A name derived from Latin; means "blind" or "dim-sighted"
From languageofflowers:
Amaranthus: Hopelessness, or hopeless love; self-sacrifice
Anemone: Forsaken
Artemisia: Absence
Begonia: Deep thoughts
Blooddrops (Adonis): Sorrowful remembrance
Burdock: "Touch me not"
Columbine (red): Anxious and trembling
Harebell: Submission, grief
Heath (Heather): Solitude
Helenium: Tears